


Blessed and Cursed

by toucanpie



Category: King Arthur (2004)
Genre: Banter, Injury Recovery, M/M, Post-Canon, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies, face shaving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26195980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toucanpie/pseuds/toucanpie
Summary: It was some time before Lancelot's health started to come back to him. The crossbow used to shoot him, plucked so easily from the mud by his thoughtful Saxon opponent, had gifted him not just a weeping wound in his chest, but also a raging fever and an occasional inability to breathe.
Relationships: Arthur Castus/Lancelot
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12
Collections: Short August Medieval Exchange 2020





	Blessed and Cursed

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



It was some time before Lancelot's health started to come back to him. The crossbow used to shoot him, plucked so easily from the mud by his thoughtful Saxon opponent, had gifted him not just a weeping wound in his chest, but also a raging fever and an occasional inability to breathe.

For the first of these injuries, and he classed them not just as injuries to his mortal body but also as severe injuries to his mortal pride, he received poultices from the hands of an dispassionate healer. With a frowning face that was hazy to him at first, she would ignore every one of his agonised hisses and bitten off cries and pack his chest with what felt like a blanket of fire.

For his second injury he was bathed. Often and with perilously cold water that did little for his mood when he was awake enough to be aware of it. This particular task he was sure was sometimes given to his friends because he remembers waking once to the sight of Galahad sponging off his left leg with great concentration. 

For the third miserable hurt they kept him abed for what felt like as long as they possibly could. Worse, they sent all of Bor's many children to take turns spying on him and reporting back to Arthur if he made any attempt to move. Like rabbits attuned to the finest tremor of the earth or rustle in the grass (or in his case, creak of the narrow bed) they would leap up at the tiniest of sounds and go fetch his well-meaning friends.

"We are trying to _help_ , Lancelot," those friends would then say, as they pressed him back down with their kind hands that he was no longer strong enough to resist. 

"I know," he would say back. "But you don't understand, I am extremely bored."

And that was when Arthur decided to take some time each day to read to him. 

(Coincidentally, this was the same sort of time that Lancelot thought idly of which god he could take up most likely to mercifully strike him down)

\----

"Just stop. You don't have the manner for reading aloud."

Arthur closed the book of terrible Roman poetry and Lancelot took a deep solacing breath in the silence that followed. 

"You are the most sour and ill-tempered -"

"I'm gravely ill," Lancelot interrupted, enjoying his moment to finally fight back. "So perhaps you should hold back your insults."

Arthur dropped the book very firmly on his legs. "You are clearly making significant improvements."

"Agreed. Perhaps it's time I was permitted out of this bed."

Arthur's face twitched with a sudden humour. "Are you asking for permission now? Because last week - "

"Oh be quiet," Lancelot said, looking away. All he needed was a brief respite from his young guardians. A man had needs that he should be able to attend to on his own.

Arthur's face, when he glanced back, held an irritating amount of amusement. 

"Don't you have a wife to please, now?" Lancelot snapped. "Shouldn't you be off starting your own family of impudent little spies?"

"I think one will do me fine, thank you, but I'll tell Guinevere you're concerned I'm not fulfilling my marital duties. If we end up keeping you awake as a result, just let one of the impudent little spies know."

"I dislike you sometimes, you know."

Arthur's smile broadened. "Whatever you say, brother."

\----

Sometimes Lancelot's fantasies took a turn towards proving to Arthur he was very much not his brother. 

Sometimes he would angrily pull Arthur up from where he was kneeling in contemplation and sometimes he would angrily push Arthur down _onto_ his knees and offer him something else to worship. Either way resulted in a furious struggle in which he always triumphed. Better still were the times he found the words in his head to persuade Arthur of his general foolishness in most matters and Arthur listened to him with wise nods and then invited Lancelot to better him. Repeatedly. With his cock.

Blasphemous, one of those Roman priests would've called him.

He suspects the Woads would probably approve.

\----

"Lancelot, will you hold still," Arthur said exasperatedly, rearing back once again with the blade in hand.

"You are doing an atrocious job," Lancelot reminded him. It paid to keep a man on his toes when he had a razor to your throat.

"How could you possibly even tell!"

"I can tell by the expression on your face."

That was a lie, Arthur's face rarely gave away anything other than the fact that he was thinking entirely too much about entirely the wrong thing. For example, musing outloud about rebuilding some outpost or another while shaving the delicate skin of Lancelot's upper throat.

"If you won't hold still, how am I meant to not cut you?"

"If you don't stop talking about construction, how will I ever survive this ordeal without expiring of boredom?"

"Ah," Arthur said, wiping his blade off on the cloth. "It's that, then."

A cooling drip of lather slithered inside the collar of Lancelot's flimsy shirt as he tried to decipher Arthur's meaning. He swatted at the soapy water as it made its way down his collarbone and towards his freshly scarred chest. The temperature of it should've done something to calm the restlessness beneath his skin but if anything, it just made him feel hotter and more clammy.

"What's this 'that, then'? No go on, tell me. I'm aching and eager to know."

There were no secrets between friends after all. Unless they were the kind of illicit secrets _he_ had.

"Well, you're aching and eager for something." 

Lancelot made a sound of frustration. Trust Arthur to take the most jovial and banal meaning of his words possible and make it sound like all he needed to do was sink his cock into any willing hole. Why could nobody appreciate how frustratingly more precise his problem was? 

"Arthur," he said, quite angrily, meaning to dismiss the man back to his building plans and very charming wife.

"Lancelot," Arthur replied, with significantly more authority.

He reached out and with the stubborn, callused fingers of one hand took a light grip of Lancelot's throat.

"Be quiet, now," he said.

Lancelot found himself swallowing abruptly, the words to banish Arthur evaporating from his tongue. Arthur's face was, true to character, difficult to read. Yet in his eyes was the serious look that he only got when faced with a task that held some importance to him or was likely to put them all out of their depth.

With his other hand, Arthur reached down to the cloth and took back up the blade.

The indignant thoughts inside Lancelot's head that demanded all of Arthur's attention, all of the time, voiced their strong approval of that and then went blessedly quiet.

He said no words as Arthur brought it closer to him, but tipped his face up so his wet skin was pulled taut and Arthur could have the best angle for his first pass.

Without comment, Arthur brought the razor to rest under his chin, the sharp edge of it pressing lightly against his skin. Lancelot kept his gaze steady only from years of practice. His pulse seemed to jump and hum under the sharp edge, like it was taunting Arthur to press harder or use that grip on his neck to hold him firmer still.

"This is good," Arthur said, low and calm, as he dragged the blade forward just an inch through the mess that was currently Lancelot's beard.

It scraped, leaving in its wake a hot trail that seemed to snake down Lancelot's neck and heat his cheeks.

"Aren't things pleasant," Arthur continued, as he scraped a second path just a little further up. "When we take the time to be nice to each other?"

This isn't being nice, Lancelot thought, his foolhardy emotions rising to the surface again. _Being nice_ would involve going faster. _Being nice_ would be Arthur tipping his damn chair back until he was lying flat on the floor and then following him down.

He opened his mouth, meaning to speak, but as he did Arthur's hand paused mid-pass. Arthur looked up, waiting, and for the first time Lancelot saw something in his face that was not just a devotion to his duty or Rome or whatever orphan needed him most. Arthur looked like Lancelot's own personal priest, a man who saw all his sins but was waiting for Lancelot to divulge them so that he might take them from his shoulders and forgive each one.

"I-" Lancelot said, swallowing and unable to look away from the depths of Arthur's firm gaze.

Of its own accord, his right hand came up to rest over the hilt of the razor.

"Fine," Arthur said easily, and then the next scrape of the blade he did with Lancelot's hand resting over his own.

Lancelot had to close his eyes. It felt like his fever was returning, his body heating to the point where he wanted nothing more than to be rid of his shirt.

"Arthur," he said, with his eyes still closed. He could not look anymore into the eyes of a man who suddenly seemed able to see right through him.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

The blade lifted away and Lancelot heard it drop onto the cloth again a moment later.

"Do you need me to stop?" Arthur asked, his fingers surprisingly light on Lancelot's neck as they brushed freshly shorn skin. The touch was both too soft and not soft enough and with his eyes closed it was impossible not to concentrate on it to the detriment of everything else.

"Lancelot," Arthur said, now rubbing his fingertips in circles over the same delicate spot.

"For God's sake, man," Lancelot hissed, his eyes flying open in frustration. "Do I need to throw myself at you like a tavern whore?"

Arthur froze and then chuckled, his solemnity giving way to amusement that started at the corners of his mouth and then seemed to spill out all over his face.

"I would greatly enjoy that," he said.

"Have I mentioned," Lancelot said, grabbing him firmly by the front of his shirt and yanking him forward. "How intently I hate you sometimes?"

"Yes, but do tell me some more."

It hurt to pick Arthur's mouth against his instead of a witty rejoinder. It hurt but he was willing to take the hit to be able to sink his teeth into Arthur's bottom lip and bite insolently down. It hurt but Arthur's hand sliding up past his ear to roughly grip his hair in retaliation was worth letting the opportunity slide by.

Of all the times, he thought, as they sent the bowl of water clattering to the floor. Of all the times to accidentally allow himself to be opened up for Arthur to see.

"Stop thinking," Arthur said, ridding him of his shirt not particularly carefully. "We're having sex, it's going to be fine. You can stop brooding afterwards and making everyone else miserable."

"You are the _worst example_ of a man I have _ever_ met," Lancelot said furiously, meaning absolutely none of it.

"I'm sure there's some truth in that," Arthur said, yanking Lancelot's breeches down with yet again very little care. "However I also think you're lying through your teeth."

If it wasn't so satisfying to have Arthur's hands on him, Lancelot would've fought that supposition. He would've given just as hard as he got with all the words he had and then some. Instead he pressed their mouths back together and half dragged Arthur with him from the chair to the bed.

"You'd better make this worth dying for," he told Arthur lowly, though what he meant was _you'd better make this worth waiting five, ten years for_.

"You worry about staying quiet," Arthur said, his hands and eyes both hot. "I'll worry about everything else."

\----


End file.
